


War Games

by unilocular



Category: NCIS
Genre: Episode: 12x05 The San Dominick, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-27
Updated: 2014-10-27
Packaged: 2018-02-22 21:40:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2522732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unilocular/pseuds/unilocular
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Of course, he passed it. He's Gibbs." Just how did Gibbs, Tony, and McGee fare in their no-win training simulations? Character studies. Episode tag to 12x05: The San Dominick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tim's Try

**Wednesday, September 4, 2004 – 08:12 – Somewhere at the Washington Navy Yard –**

The gun weighs heavy in his hands. Its grip grows more slippery with every passing second.

He can't stay here. He needs to move, now.

Rolling onto the balls of his feet, Tim pushes himself forward. He inhales deeply, catching the scent of rust and stagnant water. The ship hasn't been aired out – or in proper working order– since before the Vietnam War. But who is he to question how the Navy uses their decommissioned fleet?

When a door slams further ahead, he ducks into an alcove. Cool metal presses through his jacket, soothing the burning skin underneath. His heart races, making that unnerving _whooshing_ noise in his ears. It grates his already frayed nerves. His shaking hands clutch his weapon to his chest, but there's no comfort here.

Just wait until this is over. Then - and only then - will he be able to relax.

_Get a grip, Tim. This is training._

But it isn't just a training exercise. It's a simulation, as Gibbs called it, meant to mimic real-life.

On a ship. Why does it always have to be on a ship?

Tim's stomach roils, bouncing up into his throat. He doesn't know whether it's his nerves or inconvenient sea-sickness rearing its ugly head. But he swallows hard, sending the acid back down. He doesn't have time for this.

No one does.

Peering out of his hiding spot, he confirms it's clear. Then he starts on his way again, slinking carefully down the ship's hallway. The space is tight with barely enough space for him to pass, but it means no one can hide here. He checks the doors along the corridor, all locked.

_Thank G-d, I'm alone. If I didn't finish, I'd never live it down._

But when he hits the end, his heart drops. His head whips right, then left, then right again. To the left, there is a radio in the Captain's quarters. To the right, the room where his make-believe assailants took Tony.

Now, he finally understands why the field agents say this training is impossible. Both scenarios doom him to failure.

_How the hell am I supposed to pick?_

Tim takes a hesitant step to the left.

If he goes to the radio, Tony will certainly die. But if Tim tries to rescue his teammate, they could both perish on this damn ship.

What is the correct choice? To save his teammate or himself?

He takes another tentative step towards the radio before he stops dead.

_This reminds me of Wrath of Khan. No matter what I pick, I'll never win._

Whirling around, Tim heads to the right. Directly for Tony.

_But that doesn't mean I can't try._

As he moves deeper into the ship's labyrinth, everything looks the same: long corridors lined with locked, cabin doors, long flood lights overhead and bulkheads. Lots and lots of bulkheads. His dress shoes clank on the metal walkways, signaling his arrival to the terrorists up ahead. He cringes at the noise – tries to silence his footfalls. But it's no use.

By now, they've already heard him coming.

He inhales deeply.

But it's so hard to breathe. The air is thick enough to drink, tainted with the slightest hint of stale oil. He doesn't need to read the sign to know where he is.

The engine room.

Tim tightens his grip, begs his hands to stop shaking.

He can do this. He's – almost - not a probationary agent anymore.

Suddenly, there's a thud, followed by a yelp.

Without having time to second-guess himself, Tim rushes into the engine room. The door slams behind him, but he doesn't flinch. Instead, his gaze is fixated on the masked man holding a gun to Tony's head.

"Federal agent," Tim warns, "drop the gun."

But the man just digs the gun deeper into Tony's temple.

The senior agent hisses. "Geez, boss, did you – "

A kick in the shin silences Tony, but it makes Tim recheck his aim. The perspiration glides down his face as the rage burns through him.

"Put the weapon down," Tim barks. "Fed – "

Something slams into the back of his knees. He goes down hard, landing on his right shoulder. His gun slides away, clicking and clanking against the metal walkway. Groaning, Tim rolls to his back. Stars dance in his vision, but he tries to get up. An uncompromising boot lands on his chest, shoving down him against the ground. The rough metal digs into his back and he moans. There's the glint of something overhead.

His eyes land on the gun. Panic bubbles in his chest, but he's paralyzed.

He manages to meet the gaze of the person above him.

"Bang, Timmy," Kate says, her voice almost taunting. "You're dead."


	2. Tony's Turn

**Tuesday, June 22, 1999 – 14:39 – Somewhere at the Washington Navy Yard –**

Tony chuckles. "You owe me a piece of pizza when I beat this, Viv."

Blackadder huffs an agitated breath. "Just count to a hundred, DiNozzo, then you can start.

Then she's gone.

Based on the thud of her boots, he figures she must be running down the hallway. If she isn't careful, one of those knee-knockers might just kill her. Who hasn't almost been murdered by one of them?

He cracks a smile to himself. Now, that would make a great case.

No one would ever suspect the bulkheads. Not even the great Leroy Jethro Gibbs.

Shifting his weight, Tony toys with the blindfold around his eyes. He thought he left his days of hazing back at OSU. But apparently, NCIS is just one big, happy fraternity too. Blackadder led him away from his desk with the promise of pizza. But he should've been suspicious when she offered to pay for his meal. Maybe he was delirious with hunger. Or perhaps, he thought she was being friendly. But he didn't know something was up until Blackadder shoved him into the backseat of a Charger. When he discovered the child-locks were on, he realized his first training for field agent status had commenced. He tried reasoning – and flirting and even, outright pleading - with Blackadder to let him eat first.

But none of it worked.

Gibbs had given her orders.

And well, she is more terrified of him than she is of Tony. So she waited until he put on the blindfold before she delivered him here.

Wherever here is.

_Since she never broke 15mph, I bet we're still somewhere on the Navy Yard._

He pulls the unloaded gun from the waistband of his jeans, runs his fingers over the blindfold again.

He could've counted to a hundred by now. Maybe even three hundred.

Flicking the fabric away, he blinks owlishly. The overhead lights are dim, giving the hallway a rusted, sulfurous glow. There's a long passageway dead ahead, lined with bulkheads and cabin doors. Stairway to the right, one set going up and another down. But the entire training mission is on this level.

He is supposed to head down the hall, make a gut decision and follow it through. To the left, a radio in the Captain's office and to the right, his boss is being held by make-believe terrorists.

With a humorless chuckle, Tony raises his gun.

_Viv better pay up for pepperoni when we're done.  
_

He skulks along the hallway, careful to avoid those shinbusters. Methodically, he checks each of the cabin doors, frowning when every single one is locked.

For all the hype surrounding this simulation, he expected more from NCIS. Run down a hallway, make a turn, then bam - done. He thought it'd more involved like his previous jobs' training. Maybe a pretend bad guy in one of the bunks like his detective exam in Baltimore. Or a fairy-tale hostage right before the end like they had in Peoria? Perhaps even a dirty comrade like the entrance exam to Philly.

Now, that was a great twist.

_Just like The Usual Suspects. I never thought Kevin Spacey would turn out to be Keyser Soze._

When Tony steps over the last bulkhead, he stares at the wall momentarily.

Will there be something unexpected here?

It doesn't seem like it. Head right, save Gibbs, get a head-slap for not going to the radio. Go the left, radio for help, and then double-back for his boss. He bets he'll earn a head-slap for not coming sooner. Making a face, Tony rubs the back of his neck. His poor brain is starting to develop a sympathetic ache, almost like a sixth sense.

_I bet Gibbs is thinking about whacking me right this second._

Figuring his boss can take care of himself, Tony heads to the left. By the time he doubles back, those fake terrorists will be begging for Tony to save them from Gibbs. Plus, there's always the bonus of postponing the head slap. A grin spreads over his face as he moves forward.

This has to be the right way.

He creeps over more knee-knockers, careful not to wipe out like Blackadder did the first time they worked together. The door to the Captain's office is ajar, so he eases it further with his gun. He sweeps the entire quarters, which is two large rooms and a small bathroom.

Head, he corrects himself. He is on a ship, after all.

He finds the radio on the small table in the living quarters. It's nothing, but a jumble of wires and smashed plastic. Pressing his lips together, Tony runs his fingers over everything, just to confirm it isn't salvageable. Not like he even knows how to fix it.

_Shit, I chose wrong._

Just as he rises to back-track, ice-cold metal digs into his neck. His chest tightens, sending his heart into his throat.

Tony freezes, his gun clattering to the ground.

"Bang, DiNozzo," Blackadder whispers, her husky breath filling his ear. "By the way, I take mine with green peppers and onions."


	3. Gibbs' Chance

**Friday, November 13, 1992 – 17:51 – Somewhere on the Norfolk Naval Base –**

_Ninety-nine._

_One hundred._

One flick sends the blindfold to the floor. Raising gun, Gibbs takes a quick moment to gather his bearings. Bottom level of a decommissioned destroyer, stern and starboard. The long patches of rust and rivulets of water tell him the ship is probably older than he thinks.

But he isn't here to ponder the life of this ship.

_Neutralize the threat, save Franks, radio for help._

It's all training, he reminds himself.

But as he creeps forward, an eerie calm rolls over him like a tidal wave. He evens his breaths, keeping them short and quiet so he compromise his position. His shoes make no sounds as he skulks along the hallway. He yanks on the cabin doors, confirms they're locked. Even though it isn't part of the mission, every angle needs to be checked and rechecked.

A single action is the difference between life and death.

He hits the end of the hallway. One peek confirms he's clear to the right, then he checks to the left. An empty hallway means the pretend terrorists are packed together...just like sitting ducks. His lips twitch into a smirk, even though he doesn't mean it.

Training needs to be viewed as a practice for real life. With hypervigilance and dedication, not humor and mindless competition.

_No one wins when they get dead._

Gibbs goes left, figuring fake terrorists will probably be holed up with their fake hostages. Most dirt-bags don't realize they only need a few people to watch a group of docile civilians.

So he'll use this to his advantage.

The air grows thicker as he heads to the engine room. Taking a deep breath, he catches the scent of fuel and it reminds him of his father's old Charger. His hand reaches into his coat pocket, fingers the surprise he brought to ensure success for his mission. Thankfully, no one bothered to frisk him before they dropped him off in the bowels of the ship. Even though it's probably cheating, he doesn't feel guilty.

_There are no rules for survival._

As soon as he hits the engine room door, he eases himself against the wall. He liberates the cold lump of metal from his pocket, stares at it in dim low light. It's his father's prized treasure from World War II.

A deactivated, German grenade.

He pushes the door open slowly, peers through to confirm no one is there. Then he chucks the hunk of metal inside. He hears it plink against the wall, skitter across the gangway.

A moment later, there's an audible gasp.

"Shit! It's a grenade!" someone yells, full of panic and raw fear. Gibbs recognizes the voice of Tom Morrow's SFA, Steve Barrows.

His lips twitch into that damned smirk again.

_Easy pickings._

When he hears two sets of footsteps rushing towards him, he throws his weight against the door. It connects with a soft body, sending someone crashing into the ground with a thud. Gibbs steps forward, points his gun at the prone figure.

"Bang," he says, "you're dead."

The man, probably Barrows, sighs and goes limp.

Across the room, Mike Franks fights with another one of the pretend terrorists. Franks' left hook connects with the man's jaw, dropping him to his knees. Gibbs steps forward, puts the gun to the man's forehead. The eyes glance up, wide and surprised, like he didn't expect this.

They never do.

"Bang," Gibbs repeats, "you're dead."

The man crumbles to the ground with a grunt. Smirking, Gibbs heads to retrieve his grenade from the corner where it landed. As he slips it into his pocket, he turns around. Franks stands by the door, eyebrows raised and surveying the mock damage.

"Whoa-ho, Probie, that ain't live - " he squints at Gibbs warily " - is it?"

"Not since 1945."

Franks' laugh echoes through the open room. "Where'd you learn that trick?"

Gibbs shrugs. "I picked up a lot in the sandbox."

"Yeah, I bet."

Franks touches his fingers to his lips, pulls a breath like he smokes a cigarette. Based on the tremble in his fingers, Gibbs figures it is well-past his boss' hourly smoke break. If they don't move, withdrawal will be the least of Franks' problems.

With a shake of his head, Gibbs peers back through the bulkhead to the hallway. Still empty.

"Come on, Mike, we need to move."

There's a terse nod, then Franks retrieves one of the unloaded guns. They slink into the hallway with Gibbs taking the lead and Franks protecting the rear. Straight ahead are the captain's quarters…and the radio. They sweep into the rooms, clearing the two quickly. Gibbs even eliminates the terrorist hiding in the head with a well-timed, "bang."

When he takes a seat at the table, the radio is smashed beyond repair. Wires and bits of plastic poke through random holes like a robotic porcupine. His face contorts into a sneer as he uses his arm to clear the table. The radio slams into the wall, exploding into a thousand pieces.

"What'd you do that for, Probie?"

But Gibbs doesn't answer. Instead, he stalks back into the Captain's bedroom. He steps over the pretend terrorist, stops by the bed where he noticed a piece of debris on their walk-through.

There's a radio – possibly dropped by the terrorist –partially obscured by the bed. He scoops it up, returns to where Franks waits.

As he swivels through the channels, Gibbs thinks he might see pride sweeping across Franks' face. Or maybe he just really needs that cigarette. But the static holds his attention more, so he keeps going until the radio crackles with a mechanical voice.

_"This is the USS Juneau, are you in need of assistance?"_

"We are." Gibbs meets Franks' eyes, cracks a grin. "NCIS Special Agents Gibbs and Franks, requesting immediate back-up."

The radio crackles to life, cutting off the Juneau's fake recording.

"We read you, loud and clear," a strong male voice comes over the radio. "Congratulations, Agent Gibbs, you passed today's exercise."

"Nice work." Frank squeezes Gibbs' shoulder, hard. "For a Probie."


End file.
